


Lethe

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (Almost), Incest, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:37:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It only took Sherlock dying for them to come to the conclusion that they work very well together indeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lethe

**Author's Note:**

> All the love to my beta and Holmescest life-partner Ari. 
> 
> Dedicated to Lokin, Nicola and Holly of tumblr's Gatiss Guild elites. They keep the love of Mycroft alight within me 24/7.

The flight is wretched, as expected.  It was long and uncomfortable, the food and company equally distasteful. All for an errand that could have been carried out from the comfort of his desk chair in London.

Mycroft intends on telling Sherlock all of this, and more, until he actually lays his eyes upon the man. Sallow, sunken eyed face and rake thin. A shadow of the former detective. Such a pity.

They sit for coffee, exchanging few words (that speak volumes). Mycroft wants to circle those fragile wrists with his fingers, grind down the bones, pull Sherlock to him and wake him up. He doesn’t. Better not startle the poor thing, he’ll come around. 

Eventually, Sherlock’s hand reaches out, lingers over Mycroft’s own. It never comes to rest, to touch, but it’s enough.

Minutes later, in a room bought, Mycroft tries to scare away the cold he knows (from experience) that has settled into Sherlock’s bones and brings his (infuriating, fantastic, beautiful) brother back to life.

It goes to show what a blind spot (a vulnerability) there is where Sherlock is concerned that Mycroft cannot say exactly when this began or why, but he knows for sure that when it did it was entirely startling. There were no years of guilty longing weighing him down, no furtive glances or wicked thoughts in the small dark hours before the dawn. They weren’t and then they were, all at once. Mycroft attributes it to their shared isolation (of course his own having been self-inflicted for years and Sherlock’s being out of necessity but that’s just _semantics_ ), intellectually, bodily.

It is immaterial anyway.

What matters now is that he wakes up in a dilapidated hotel somewhere on the outskirts of Chisinau. Nine year old mattress beneath, yellow smokers-stains on the plaster above, bars fixed to the window and his little brother lying beside him.

Sherlock is sprawled on his front, threadbare sheet dipping just below his waist in a manner that practically begs Mycroft to run the flat of his palm up the exposed plane of his back, to count the vertebrae with his tongue. He refrains on both accounts (if just to show himself that he still can) and instead brushes the nest of hair from Sherlock’s face.

“Darling boy,” Mycroft sighs, lips coming to rest against the shell of Sherlock’s ear, “wake up for me.”

A hand darts out, fingers curling around Mycroft’s neck, thumb pressing into his wind pipe just on the wrong side of comfort. Sherlock’s stares at his assailant, sharp and aware. His eyes have never fluttered open (there’s no fairy tale to be found here). Mycroft only pushes into the threat, until he can scarcely breathe for it, and rests his lips against his brother’s own pretty pair.

The response is immediate and frightening. Sherlock straddling Mycroft’s waist, kissing him furiously as if trying to steal the very air from his lungs (and he’d give it, gladly, the sentimental fool). Treacherous bodies react to the contact (and if they could they’d shed these awful vessels and wander unencumbered but they can’t so why not make the most of them?) as their cocks stiffen between them.

But that’s quite enough of that.

In a moment Mycroft has their positioned flipped, resting between Sherlock’s spread legs and hands pinning his wrists to the bed. He presses his thumbs into pliant flesh to feel the pulse there. Strong and steady (the relief this brings is irrational but comforting).

“How are you?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions, brother.” Sherlock smirks, “Someone might accuse you of getting sentimental on me.”

The reply is enough to reassure Mycroft that his brother is back from wherever within himself he had receded.

“The horror.” Mycroft returns a half-smile before kissing Sherlock hard.

Mycroft's fingertips circle the juts of bone in his wrist, slide across his jaw. This dance is somewhat foreign to them both but, as in everything, they excel.

He runs a finger between the cleft of Sherlock’s buttocks, feels the hole shiver and twitch. He’s wet, still leaking from the night before (it’s a delicious thought that his brother kept him inside all night) and Mycroft resolves not to take Sherlock again so soon after the last. He doesn’t wish to hurt him (not this time, anyway).

Instead he slicks them both with the cheap, hotel branded hand lotion that Mycroft shudders to think has been used for a purpose not dissimilar to this a hundred times before. He can’t exactly take the higher moral ground here (but he’ll try anyway). He takes them both in hand as ankles lock around his waist. Their bodies sink into one another easily and Mycroft imagines enveloping his brother completely, encompassing his very being (and never letting him out again). Because nothing has ever been and will ever be this blissfully simple between them again.

They’re neither of them looking for a drawn out affair, tease and torment belong to darker nights and prettier cities, and the thrusts between Mycroft’s fist come quick, punctuated with their ragged breaths.

Sherlock ruts against him, half out of his mind (only in the greying morn on foreign soil could the great detective ever reveal himself to have such a human weakness).  His jaw is slack, saliva gathering at the corner of his mouth as he keens.  Mycroft slips two long digits into that mouth and feels lips wrap around them, a tongue taste them - a promise for another day (he will not count the hours down or like awake thinking about their next. That is not for them.)

For now though, release.

His own is brief- jaw clenched tight, throat swallowing reflexively, knuckles white, arse clenched- but satisfying and completely unimportant. It is the site beneath him that needs to be sculpted and painted and burned onto the heavens.

Spine arching, flush creeping down his neck, across his chest, head thrown back, eyes wild. It is unbecoming, clumsy, indecent, and absolutely the most spectacular Mycroft has ever seen his baby brother. Lord how he wants (how he loves). He cannot resist licking a stripe up Sherlock’s straining throat to taste the quiver there as the cry of release escapes him (one he’ll never admit to outside of this room) and he expires between their bodies, adding to Mycroft’s own mess.

Sherlock disentangles himself almost immediately, griping about the mess, face a pantomime grimace. Mycroft cannot help but agree.

It is no surprise, no sudden crash back to a harsh reality.

There is no spell to be broken. They don’t need one. 


End file.
